Heavenly Harmonies. A Conversation with Maestro Aurelio Porfiri

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The fifth centenary of the birth of Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina , princeps musicae of the Renaissance and a renowned protagonist in the Roman context during the Counter-Reformation, is an invitation to revisit an era that certainly remains unparalleled. The clarity, proportion, and perfection with which he imbued his scores, so much so that he was called—somewhat emphatically but not untrue—the "savior of polyphony," remain emblematic expressions of the deepest identity of Renaissance culture. Anyone familiar with the beauty of that repertoire cannot help but grasp the gulf that separates it from the musical expressions that often accompany the liturgy of our time, as Aurelio Porfiri , choir director and composer, who has made these themes the heart of his reflections, repeatedly emphasizes. Our meeting sparks a dialogue on music, beauty, and liturgy; on the legacy the past entrusts to us and on the current context . And it's appropriate to start from the Renaissance, if precisely through Palestrina the Church, a careful custodian of the sacred monodic repertoire (more or less properly defined as "Gregorian chant"), rediscovered in those years the possibility of a language—developed, after the excesses of the dizzying Flemish style, almost "by way of subtraction"—that conformed to the spirit of the liturgy: not mere compositional skill, not spectacle, but music that truly fostered prayer. "We must keep in mind," Porfiri emphasizes, "that the figure of Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina is important not only for Catholics, but for humanity. His greatness is comparable to that of illustrious masters of our tradition—I think, among others, of Dante and Michelangelo—and therefore he is of enormous importance for Western culture, but also for culture itself: the 500th anniversary, for this reason, should be celebrated not only by the world of music, but more generally by all those who love art and beauty."

"The figure of Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina is important not only for Catholics, but for culture as a whole and for humanity."

The story of the composer born in Palestrina in 1525 is firmly rooted in Rome, in his constant relationships with the pontiffs, in his leadership of illustrious musical circles, and in the prolific compositional activity that brought the age of polyphony to its absolute pinnacle. "It is important to observe," Porfiri notes, "how Palestrina's work achieves a perfect union between liturgical text and music: he carries out a true exegesis of the biblical text accomplished through musical art, and in this way his music seems to flow naturally from the text itself. It is a phenomenon we sometimes see in the figurative arts as well, but here, in the musical sphere, we have the achievement of unprecedented and extraordinary heights. It is music of such clarity that it seems to have arisen spontaneously. This is why Palestrina deserved to be called—even during his lifetime—the prince of music ." This, if you think about it, is what has characterized the nature of Christian chant since the earliest centuries: not a melody set to a text, but rather a sort of elevation of the voice that, rising to the relationship with the infinitely other, blossoms into sound to correspond to the heights of the sacred. "Its fundamental characteristic," Porfiri continues, "is the ability to reach the depths of the text: the simplicity attributed to it (from the Latin sine plica, meaning without folds) lies in its ability to reach the essential. It is a simplicity that goes to the heart of the text and thus manages to build a great cathedral of sound in which all the textual elements are perfectly perceptible."

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Palestrina's work responded extremely pertinently to the demands of the Catholic Reformation, which manifested the need to simplify a language that, in the wake of a centuries-old journey, had reached unprecedented heights of complexity: Flemish polyphonies are artificial constructions in which the text is lost in the marvelous tangle of voices that chase each other in such an articulated way as to obtain surprising effects but at the same time raise more than a few doubts: young composers "run and never rest, they intoxicate the ears and do not care for the souls", observed, already a century earlier, John XXII. As Porfiri reiterates, "When Palestrina was born, Flemish music had developed an extremely—and perhaps excessively—complex counterpoint: the compositions of the Flemish fifteenth century are spectacular, but that great compositional skill resulted in the loss of the music's expressive sense, which was replaced by a sort of contrapuntal skill. Then we come to Josquin Desprez, a figure who constitutes a sort of 'bridge' between the complexity of Flemish music and the simplification of the sixteenth century: in his work we see a more expressive approach . Palestrina will take Desprez's lesson to heart, infusing it with a distinctly Italian soul, the warmth of expressiveness, and even a mysticism so profound that it will leave the listener stunned by the unprecedented beauty of these pages." From that moment on, Palestrina's work would remain an indispensable reference in the field of sacred music: a new symmetry, the search for balance and proportion, a formal composure which – if they should not be attributed solely to him, being already inherent in the trends of the time – find in the great Roman master their most illustrious example.

Josquin Desprez is a "bridge" figure between Flemish complexity and the simplification of the sixteenth century." Palestrina will make that lesson his own.

“We must ask ourselves: why has this treasure that tradition has handed down to us been excluded from churches today?”, asks Porfiri. We thus arrive at the most delicate topic, which introduces, in connection with the present, the question of the interpretation of the texts of the Second Vatican Council: "The Council raised the issue of sacred music, but some of its documents have been used as a pretext to advance progressive ideas that, while claiming to refer to the conciliar texts, have in fact contradicted their contents. The conciliar texts emphasized, for example, the fact that Gregorian chant is the proper chant of the Roman liturgy, that polyphony must be carefully preserved, that the organ is the 'principal' instrument of the liturgy ; nevertheless, something very different has happened, which is clear for all to see: the traditional repertoire has been set aside, the organ has often been left in disuse, and above all, music that is not at all conducive to prayer has been permitted into the church. A second-rate repertoire, inspired by commercial music, completely unsuitable for worship, has taken the place of true music." liturgical”.

“Some Vatican II documents have been used as a pretext to support ideas about music that have in fact contradicted their contents.”

It is significant, in this regard, to recall how Benedict XVI—who repeatedly emphasized the importance of music within the liturgy—did not hesitate to highlight how the tendency to favor the participatio actuosa, thematicized form of the conciliar texts, had generated a misunderstanding that led to a decline in the beauty inherent in liturgical action. Indeed, Ratzinger wrote: "In the experiences of recent years, one thing has certainly become evident: the withdrawal into the useful has not made the liturgy clearer, but only impoverished. Necessary simplicity must not be achieved through impoverishment." In those passages of his writings, the pontiff explained how the idea of active participation need not necessarily involve visible, external activity, adding: "Are not perceiving, appreciating, and being moved also active?" "We must keep in mind," Porfiri comments, "that participation doesn't necessarily mean 'doing something': listening also contributes. We could define participationism as the tendency to think everyone must perform some action. In the musical field, we can't rely on those who lack expertise, and it's worth remembering, in this regard, that a psalm says: 'Sing to God with skill.' The current state of music in our churches, however, is disastrous: the abandonment of the great traditional repertoire, the disappearance of scholae cantorum, the absence of organists." A drastic change, therefore, which, by excluding the traditional repertoire, has favored the irruption of "popular music": "We could consider," adds Porfiri, "the idea that this music was brought into church to attract young people: but where are the young people? We therefore understand that this is a misconception: young people, instead, should participate in something that is good, holy, and true. If anyone thought that the introduction of this kind of music would foster a relationship with young people, we can see that the result has not been achieved."

It's clear how misunderstanding the theme of active participation has led to a loss of interiority: if silence seems like a "void" to many today, it's perhaps because there's been a lack of effective education in this fundamental dimension of faith. It's also worth noting that, upon closer inspection, the songs that characterize many of our Sunday liturgies seem to address sentiment more than contemplation. "This theme," Porfiri emphasizes, "is extremely important. This genre of music confronts us with the problem of sentimentality, understood as a corruption of sentiment: these songs use certain musical devices to touch the emotional dimension, but they have nothing specifically suited to the liturgy . Today, most people struggle to recognize which music is appropriate for the liturgy and which is not, because in recent decades there has been a lack of education in taste: there is such a lack of education in beauty that few are aware of this crisis."

Reaching out to young people with the kind of music they hear in church today, "but where are the young people?" Sentimentality at the expense of contemplation

It is therefore a question of educating in beauty. And it is fitting, in this regard, to recall how Benedict XVI considered musical art a wide-open door onto that via pulchritudinis that allows us to raise our gaze to the heights of desire that weaves human nature: "Music," he wrote, "has the capacity to point beyond itself to the Creator of all harmony and to evoke within us resonances that are, so to speak, a tuning into the beauty and truth of God." Furthermore, in a reference to Saint Bernard, the same pontiff recalled how he demanded the utmost attention from his monks in the execution of chant, considering improperly performed music a lapse into what he called regio dissimilitudinis. The Church immerses us in beauty to lead us toward ourselves and toward that interiority in which, through notes but also through silence, resides not solitude but the most profound relationship. “All beauty,” Porfiri concludes, “is a reflection of God. There is a beautiful poem by Tagore that emphasizes the value of music: I know that you delight in my song, / that only as a singer / can I present myself before you. / With the outstretched wing of my song / I touch your feet, which I never / thought I could touch. The beauty of song is something that opens the soul to God.”

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